Something flickers across his face. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. You know how I said I was no good at drinking – well, I am also not great at getting angry.’
I want to tell him that he’s also rubbish at entering the flat without making a sound in the early hours, but I decide to keep it to myself. Tiredness washes over me. ‘You need to rest your toe,’ I say, after yawning. ‘Maybe an early night will do you good.’
18
‘We have author Rosie Flint doing some book signings this afternoon,’ announces Miranda, gliding past the counter with a cardboard box. ‘Rosie’s new book on magic, spells, and hexes is excellent. I finished it last night.’
I meant to have a look at Rosie’s book over lunch, but we were too busy. I’ve been wondering whether it covers curses and how it compares to J.K. Fielding’s tome.
‘You look tired, Nelly.’ Miranda grins. ‘Is he keeping you up?’
I’m too tired to reply. It’s been a week since Oliver arrived, and he’s woken me up every night for various reasons. After the night he stubbed his toe, he made Jamie take him to the hospital for an X-ray. Because A & E was busy, he wasn’t seen until midnight and got home at three. As Jamie predicted, his toe was just bruised. Once home, Oliver slammed my door and hobbled down the hall. Since then, he’s woken me for many reasons: keys at Jamie’s, keys left in his coat at a bar, and a bloodied nose after an argument with a man over a taxi.
Oliver is a night owl, and I wish he’d made this clear in the interview.
It’s great that I don’t have to have awkward conversations with him in the living room in the evenings, but I wish he’d be quiet when he came home. I can’t remember the last time I had a whole night’s sleep.
Oliver and I have got into a pattern. He’s asleep in the mornings before I go to the bookshop or to visit Aunt Polly. When I get home, he is always sitting on the sofa with his unbuttoned shirt looking handsome or he’s cooking me a delicious meal as a way of an apology. Last night’s coq au vin was exceptional, and he tidied up before he went out.
Being awakened at two in the morning every night is exhausting, and Aunt Polly keeps asking me why I am so drained when I’m with her. This is frustrating because my time with her is special, and I want to be wide awake and alert when she has her chemo, not yawning and dozing off in a chair.
Last night, in the early hours, I was woken up by voices and someone slamming the door shut. They had taken no notice of the giant piece of white paper stuck to the door, which read in capitals:CLOSE THE DOOR QUIETLY.
I heard Jamie exclaim, ‘Your nose is bleeding, and it’s going on the floor.’ My irritation levels spiked and I was at my bedroom door in seconds.
Oliver had a bloodied nose and was pressing the tiniest bit of tissue against it.
‘What happened?’ I exclaimed, staring in horror.
They exchanged an odd look with each other before Jamie said, ‘Ollie disagreed with a guy who wanted our taxi. He came off worse.’
‘Who – the other guy?’
Jamie smirked. ‘No, Ollie.’
I glanced at Oliver, who cast me one of his sorrowful looks. ‘Punching is not one of my strengths.’
By this point, I was at the end of my exhausted tether. ‘Oliver, do you think you could go out for once and not kick any kerbs, argue at a taxi rank or lose your keys? Also, could you come home QUIETLY? And not wake me up?’
Oliver hung his head and Jamie mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to me.
After I’d cleaned up my floor and Jamie had helped sort out Oliver’s nosebleed, I managed to fall back asleep.
I look at Miranda. ‘Did Oliver go out a lot when he stayed with you?’
She laughs. ‘Nelly, he’s a handsome bachelor. He’s enjoying himself with half the young female population of this town.’
From what I’ve seen of Oliver, I’m not getting the sense he’s enjoying himself with the ladies. He’s too busy causing himself unnecessary minor injuries, forgetting his keys and making a racket in the small hours.
‘He’s a bit chaotic – don’t you think?’
Miranda blinks in astonishment. ‘Nelly, he’s a bestselling author – chaos is part of the author package. Oliver can come and be chaotic with me any time he likes.’ She lets out a dreamy sigh, then tilts her head to one side and gives me a serious look. I can tell she’s about to offer some of her life advice. ‘For God’s sake, let the man live.’
I open my mouth, but she ignores me and changes the subject. ‘Rosie has spent her life studying her subject. You could write what she doesn’t know about magic on the back of a postage stamp.’
Rosie, the expert in all things magical, might have the solution to lifting my curse. Excitement takes hold of me, and I forget all about my nocturnal flatmate.
I crane my neck to look in the box Miranda is carrying. ‘What’s in there?’
